


Get to Me

by kosmickway (KMDWriterGrl)



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:57:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KMDWriterGrl/pseuds/kosmickway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-eps for some of the most Grissom/Sara-centric episodes-- "Play with Fire"; "Invisible Evidence"; "Butterflied" and several others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics are from Jennifer Paige's "Get to Me."

_Don't misread the silence/And take my distance as a sign. There's only one heart that's confused/And it's most likely mine._

 

“Sara, I don’t know what to do about this.”

 

That’s not true. He knows exactly what to do about it. But he can’t admit that to her, not now, not when his head is spinning with explosions and glass, bandaged hands and burned backs, and his own rapidly degrading hearing. In the midst of chaos he cannot think long enough to tell her what’s in his head and heart, can’t properly tell her how the sight of her lying in the hallway amidst a tidal wave of glass, water, and ash made his stomach free-fall worse than the tallest hill on the fastest coaster ever could.

 

Now he’s stuck, caught stickily between duty and desire, tangled up in emotions that he simply cannot take the time to break down to their core components. He knows _exactly_ what to do about this. But doing it is another matter. 

 

Her eyes will be wide and hurting and that’s why he can’t meet them. And it isn’t just her eyes he can’t meet. It’s her lips. If he stares long enough at her sweetly formed mouth, even to read her lips, he’ll implode, the pressure around his heart and lungs and groin sublimating into a massive supernova. In the wake of the nova, what might there be? Her hips in his hands? His mouth pressing down on hers, hard enough to bruise? His name murmured in his ear, a sound that no amount of hearing loss could mask? 

 

“I do. Let’s just see what happens.”

 

 

Don’t look. For God’s sake, don’t look. Her husky voice, even distorted as if from underwater is enough to make him want to drop everything and pull her close, to slide his mouth over her racing pulse point. If he looks, he’ll be lost. 

 

She takes his silence as a no, not understanding that it’s his own struggle against warring inner urges that’s driven him speechless. He can see her out of the corner of his eye and the look on her face twists his gut a second time.

 

“By the time you figure it out, it really might be too late.”

 

_I always make the rules and I change 'em all the time. Always stayed a step ahead 'til you looked in my eyes_.

 

_My thoughts are frozen. Can't you hear me screaming inside as you come closer? Don't know where to run this time._

 

He’s desperate for coffee. All-nighters after full shifts are the reason double espressos were invented.

 

He’s heading for the break room, determined to alleviate his fuzzy-headedness with Greg’s stash of espresso when he passes Sara standing in the layout room, staring at the sheet hanging on the wall. There’s something about the way that she’s gazing at it that makes him wonder what it is she sees in the Rorschach pattern of crimson and cream. 

 

He steps inside, not sure whether to disturb her, and certainly not sure whether he wants to match wits with Sara when he’s so tired. But curiosity gets the better of him and he moves to her side, noting with a small inward smile that she’s so intent that she doesn’t even look up until he’s right beside her. 

 

“Checking my work?”

 

“No, I’m just looking around.”

 

 

And she’s silent, which is really odd for brilliant, opinionated Sara. Maybe she’s as tired as he is. She doesn’t look it– her black trousers and shirt are still smartly creased, her hair still as wavy as it was 12 hours ago when she came on shift. Her eyes are bright, probing, studying the sheet from every possible angle, looking for an answer. 

 

“What are you thinking?”

 

“Well, her body left behind this void. When the attacker was on top– he held her down by her wrists.” 

 

She steps closer to the sheet, not so much showing him as seeing it play out behind her own eyes. He knows how her mind works, knows she can visualize with almost horrifying clarity what might have happened at any given scene. She’s in that place now, measuring her visualizations against the evidence, her eyes taking on a dark, abstracted look that he finds fascinating. 

 

“Which would explain the transfer of wax from him to her.”

 

He’s not too tired to see that fact or the look of triumph when she turns to face him. 

 

“Yes.” She studies him for a second, half-smiling, glad they’re thinking along the same lines. Then the smile drops and she says, “Pin me down.”

 

It takes the words a second to register, then another second for the implication to sear across his consciousness. 

 

_Pin me down_. 

 

How often has he thought of _that_ lately, imagining the long, warm length of her body under his, her wrists in his hands, her breath against his cheek?  

 

He doesn’t– _can’t_ – resist the request– _invitation_ – and steps toward her, places his bare palms against her wrists, raises them to shoulder height, and pushes against her, bringing his body close to hers. 

 

“She would have struggled–“

 

But Sara isn’t. Not really. She’s pretending, playing for the sake of the re-enactment, but she wants this and he knows it because her pulse has picked up and he can feel it fluttering wildly against his hands. She’s looking from him to the sheet to their conjoined wrists and hands, trying not to look for the heat in his gaze the one time, dammit, that it’s there. The one time that he wants her to understand that he’s completely with her, that he wants her, badly wants her, and isn’t afraid to show it this way and she isn’t even looking at him!  He pushes down on her wrists harder, wanting her to look at him, to see what he can’t vocalize. 

 

 

“Then, she gave up.”

 

She’s looking at him now, really looking, and he doesn’t look away either, lets her see the desire in his eyes, how intensely this is searing him inside. She’s given up play-acting-- or maybe she still is acting because hasn’t she just said, ‘She gave up’? 

 

Or is it Sara who’s given up? 

 

Or is it him?

 

He’s still staring intently at her, and their eyes lock, and neither looks away. It’s only a matter of seconds before he’s going to lean down and kiss her, the lab be damned, the rest of the team be damned, the full-length plate-glass windows be damned. It’s going to happen and he wants it, is so sick of fighting it. 

 

But she speaks, almost out of desperation, and he can’t kiss her now, not when she’s half with him and half in the murdered woman’s bedroom. When he kisses her, he wants her to be completely with him, all the way inside the moment. 

 

“Afterward, when he got up, he put his hands on the sheet for leverage.” 

 

But this is better, because he moves his searing palms from her wrists and brings them down toward the gorgeous curve between her rib cage and her hips, the long, sensual dip that his tongue is dying to drag across.

 

“Like this. Which explains how the wax got from him to the sheets.”

 

She hasn’t been looking since he moved his hands from her wrists, possibly because she’s figured out where his thoughts have gone, or maybe just because she’s back in case mode. But then she looks at him and her eyes have gone dark and hot with desire and he gets to see for the first time ( _but not_ , he vows, _for the last time_ ) exactly what Sara Sidle would look like sleepy and sated after a bout of incredibly satisfying sex. 

 

“Yes.”

 

And it’s not a yes to his statement but to all the things unsaid in the press of his hands, the heat of his gaze. He meets those gorgeous bedroom eyes of hers and spends a long five seconds fighting the urge to kiss her senseless. 

 

 

It must be that intense longing that frightens her because she suddenly puts her arms down, the seductive haze in her eyes clears, and she murmurs, “Grissom, um, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

 

Before he tells her “Go ahead,” back in full supervisor mode, he inwardly updates his mental list of urgent needs so that _cold shower_ and _sex with Sara_ comes before _strong coffee_. 

 

_I feel weak, I'm never weak. I always know what to say. Don't look at me, I can't speak. How did you get to me this way?_

_All I know is what I feel and what I feel is way too real. Who I am is what you see. Baby, how did you ever get to me?_

He goes to her apartment because he’s worried about her _._ Not as a supervisor–no, he’s gotten past that personal delusion. Ecklie’s twenty minute tirade in his office be damned. Even Catherine’s anger doesn’t matter to him now. He’s knocking on the door to her apartment because there is something very wrong with Sara and he has to know what it is. 

 

She opens the door with the grim expression of someone who knows her head will very shortly be falling into the basket at the bottom of the chopping block. 

 

“Well, if you’re here it can’t be good.”

 

“Can I come in?” 

 

She steps aside and lets him pass. The smell of her shampoo and body lotion overrides the scent of alcohol from the open bottle of Heineken she’s holding in her hand. 

 

“Wanna ask me if I’m drunk?”

 

She flashes a sharply unamused smile and tosses her hair back. The flash-in-a-pan anger that prompted her outbursts with Catherine and Ecklie is still there– the smile and the head toss confirm it. The anger’s been tamped down behind walls of crumbling concrete– mostly contained but likely to erupt again. 

 

 

She won’t snap at him, he’s certain of that. She’s always been so careful to maintain a semblance of control with him, still so desperate to impress after all these years, the eager student to the brilliant master. 

 

_Sara, just let the walls down_ , he feels like saying. _Show me the real you_.  

 

“We both know that’s not your problem,” he says. He has to school his features into something that more closely resembles a stern supervisor and not a concerned friend, simply to continue playing the role. “I spoke to Catherine.”

 

“Ecklie?”

 

“He wants me to fire you.”

 

There’s sharp, bitter almond disappointment in her eyes.“I figured. Can I get you anything?”

 

Resignation. It’s in her voice, her face, her body language. He doesn’t want that there, doesn’t want to see her giving in. To see the fire inside of her tamped down at all the wrong times and raging in all the wrong places is almost more than he can handle, mostly because he knows that part of what’s driven her to this place is him.

 

“Sure. An explanation.”

 

“I— lost my temper.”

 

He has to refrain from using one of Greg’s favorite expressions– “well, DUH.” He can see her temper still roiling beneath the surface, even beneath her carefully schooled features. He studies her just a beat too long and that prompts her into movement, a forced walk across the room to get away from the question that will inevitably follow. 

 

“That seems to be happening quite a bit. Do you know why?”

 

“What difference does it make? I’m still fired.”

 

Belligerent, which is something she’s never been with him. He has to tread carefully now if he ever wants to get anything out of her. So he finally drops the supervisor act– and an act is all it has been, he admits– and lets his voice gentle on his next words. 

 

 

“It makes a difference to me.”

 

She considers, giving him her eyes for a moment, then begins to recite, a wry smile twisting her lips.

 

“I have a problem with authority. I choose men who are emotionally unavailable–“ She gestures right at him, has no qualms about using him as an example of what is fucking her up so badly, and it’s all he can do not to wince with pain, frustration, and guilt. “–I’m self-destructive. All of the above.”

 

Self-destructive. A flash of stark black and white images hits his mind all at once– Sara, alone with a bottle of Jack, an old movie playing on a TV that she pays no attention to. Sara, hiking the trails in Icebox Canyon all by herself, pushing her body to its outermost limits, sweating, panting, furiously scrabbling over rocks and shale, mouth set in a grim line. Sara, at the shooting range, grimly pulling on a Beretta, plugging target after target. Sara, sitting on the bathroom floor, away from mirrors, an Xacto blade slicing thin, straight lines on the insides of her arms. Hasn’t he noticed the scars, old and white, and, just recently, the newer ones, pink or angry red? Hasn’t he longed to ask and then brushed it aside, none of his business?

 

“Have you ever gone a week without a rationalization?”

 

When the anger flashes in her eyes, he realizes she not only doesn’t get the reference but that she thinks he’s mocking her, making light of her concerns. Fuck!

 

“It’s from The Big Chill,” he amends. “One of the characters explaining a basic fact of life, that rationalizations are more important to us than–“

 

He searches for an appropriate example and can’t come up with one so he finally reaches into his head and pulls out his own inappropriate thoughts. 

 

“– sex even.”

 

Subtle Gil. Real subtle. 

 

“I am not rationalizing anything. I crossed the line with Catherine and I was– insubordinate to Ecklie.”

 

“Why?”

 

 

Her whole face closes down as her jaw tightens. “Leave it alone.”

 

“No, Sara!”

 

She’s shocked that he’s insisted. It’s in her eyes and all over her face. He’s never insisted before, ever, on anything, and suddenly he’s crossed his own personal line with her. She stares at him, eyes wide and almost angry. 

 

“What do you want from me?”

 

“I want to know why you’re so angry.”

 

She thinks about this, thinks long enough that he has to qualify by saying, “I really want to know. I don’t want something you’ve made up.”

 

“You want the truth?”

 

“I always want the truth, Sara.”

 

“It isn’t pretty,” she warns. She stands up and starts to pace around the room, all pent-up energy and long restless limbs, a caged panther.  He stands still in opposition to her movement, hoping to project strength and solidity, hoping he doesn’t look frozen or as out of place as he suddenly feels.

 

“What in life is?”

 

“You’re going to think I’m making--” she grins sourly, “–rationalizations.

 

“I’m hurt that you think so little of me.”

 

And he is. And she knows it, because she stops and stares at him, and finally says, “I’m sorry. It’s just– I haven’t told this to anyone.”

 

“Anyone here?”

 

 

“No, anyone at all. It’s too– I just–“ She breathes out, hard, harsh, somewhere between a sigh and a sob. “You’re the first.”

 

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just sits down on the couch and waits for her to calm down enough to join him. 

 

“You’ve read my file?”

 

“Parts of it.” 

 

_A lie. He’s read all of it. In great detail._

 

“Nothing in-depth.” 

 

_He’s memorized her vital stats. Allergies– Erythromycin. Amoxycyllin. Bee stings. Emergency Contact– anyone from the lab. Previous Surgeries–Tonsils at 8. Appendix at 15._

 

“You know my parents are– That my father is–“ 

 

“Your father passed away. I know. It mentions that.”

 

“It doesn’t say how.” She walks to the balcony door, slides it open, letting in cool air and the sound of traffic. Her face is flushed, her eyes bright.

 

“No, it doesn’t say how.”

 

“He was murdered.” She sits down on the small chair nearest him, draws her long legs close to her chest, hugs her knees like a small child. He moves to the edge of the couch, hoping to hear her better, wanting to be closer. 

 

“It’s funny the things that you remember and the things that you don’t, you know? There was a smell of iron in the air, cast-off on the bedroom wall. There was this young cop, puking his guts. I don’t remember the woman who took me to foster care. I can’t remember her name. Which is strange, you know, because I couldn’t let go of her hand.”

 

 

Oh no. No, no, no. Not this. Please not this. Not the nightmare that he’s seen– that _they’ve_ seen-- so many times together. The blank eyed child, quietly uncomprehending.  The hysterical child, wanting only Mommy or Daddy. The crying child, clutching a favorite animal and unable to let go of the case worker. Not this. Not for Sara. Please no. 

 

“Well,” he finally mumbles inadequately, “The mind has its filters.”

 

“I do remember the looks. I became ‘the girl whose father was stabbed to death.’”

 

Their eyes lock and he sees the fear in her eyes, sees the black featured spectre that keeps her up nights, looking for solace in the bottom of a bottle. It twists his heart completely in his chest when she finally asks, voice breaking, “Do you think there’s a murder gene?”

 

There’s so much that he wants to say to that, so many ways he wants to respond. It’s a struggle not to take her in his arms. Finally he just says, “I don’t believe that genes are a predictor of violent behavior.”

 

“You wouldn’t know that in my house. The fights, the yelling, the trips to the hospital– I thought it was the way that everybody lived.  When my mother killed my father ... I found out that it wasn’t.”

 

There’s anguish written all over her face in the way her eyes are filling with tears, in the tremble of her chin when she says the word “father.”  Immense sadness. Pain so intense he can hardly bear to see it written so large on so delicate a face. And looking at her face, now, he can see the remnants of a violent childhood, scars he hadn’t taken the time to see before. The slight bump in a re-set nose, a fading scar on her forehead, the gap in her teeth that is suddenly less adorable and more pitiful. 

 

He doesn’t say any of the thousand things rising inside of him. 

            

Baby ...

Sweetheart ...

Honey ...

Angel ...

Sara ... 

 

He doesn’t do what he really wants to just then, which is pull her to his chest and hold her, stroking her hair, easing the tension out of her neck, kissing the tear tracks off of her cheeks. 

 

 

Instead he sits, watches, waiting for the dam to break, knowing that it needs to, that the tears must come, that she must grieve before it overwhelms her completely. 

 

At the first choked sob she looks away from him, trying to hide her face. When more sobs shake her body, she shades her forehead with her hand, still trying not to let him see. Then the torrent starts and the tears are wracking her and she’s crying gut-wrenching, soul-shaking sobs. 

 

Only then, as she’s letting the emotion loose, does he take her hand and hold it steadily, hoping like hell that she’ll never know that he, too, is crying– just on the inside. 

 

***

_This emotion I keep tryin' to leave behind keeps getting closer. Don't know where to run this time._

 

Maybe it’s because they’re both reeling from Nick’s brush with death. Or because they’re both exhausted and looking for whatever comfort they can find. Possibly it’s the realization of years wasted pretending there isn’t something between them, precious years that they’ll never be able to regain.

 

Whatever the reason, the night of Nick’s retrieval from his would-be tomb in the middle of an orange nursery in Henderson is also the night Gil Grissom takes Sara Sidle to bed.

 

* 

She would have camped out at the hospital for hours if he hadn’t finally insisted on taking her home to rest. He’d already managed to pry Greg out of the waiting room chairs and in to a car with Brass. Warrick was stubbornly insistent on staying at Desert Palm, and Catherine was equally keen on waiting with him. When Grissom left with Sara, they were dozing together on the couch, hands intertwined, Catherine’s head on Warrick’s shoulder. 

 

It was a quiet drive to Sara’s apartment, both re-living the horror of the last few hours in their heads. 

 

_Nick, covered in swollen ant bites, nostrils stuffed with black cotton, crying piteously as Grissom and Warrick leaned over him._

_Catherine on her hands and knees, digging frantically in the dirt._

_Greg kneeling with the fire extinguisher over Nick’s would-be tomb, knuckles white on the hose as he pumps short bursts of frozen carbon dioxide into the box._

_Sara pelting full out down the line of orange trees with a shovel and launching herself into the fray to scrape away huge shovelfuls of loose dirt, arms shaking with nerves and exertion._

_  
_

_Brass turning aside, naked emotion on his face, as Nick is strapped to a gurney and rolled away._

 

“How are they treating the ant bites?” Sara asked, staring out the window. 

 

“Hydrocortisone lotion. Same thing you’d use for any other insect bite. Because these stings and bites are so severe, they’ll probably apply a topical cooling agent like aloe vera. That will help with the burning.”

 

He reverted to the clinical because that was all that he could stand. The reality of Nick’s abduction and torture was still too raw, too visceral. He couldn’t stand to imagine the good-hearted Texan, the closest thing he’d likely ever have to a son, covered in swollen bites, sobbing with pain and fear. 

 

“I couldn’t be as brave as Nick. Not if that happened to me.”

 

“Don’t underestimate yourself.”

 

“Oh, believe me, I’m not. I wouldn’t be able to stand that feeling of insects crawling on me. It would drive me crazy.”

 

Too much. The idea of anything happening to Sara was too dangerous to dwell on, too frightening for his already fragile nerves to take. He tried to make light of it instead. 

 

“So I guess introducing you to my millipede collection is out of the question,” he offered. 

 

Sara laughed softly, surprised by the humor. “Yeah, I’m afraid so. I just couldn’t give them the appreciation they deserve.”

 

Grissom pulled to a stop outside Sara’s building and walked around to open her car door. The wind was cool in the early morning and it whipped her hair around her head. A few strands of it brushed his cheek. He could smell apple shampoo, the desert, and her, and suddenly found himself completely and painfully aroused.

 

Sara. One of very few women to get under his skin, the only one to capture his heart and his mind as well. Seven years he’d fought it, seven years of watching Sara stalk out crime scenes, bewilder defendants, bewitch her colleagues, and steal fractions of his heart from inside of his chest. 

 

 

_How the hell does she manage to get to me?_ he asked himself, though he already knew the answer, at least peripherally. 

 

He laid a gentle hand on her back, both to steer her toward her apartment and to have the contact he’s suddenly craving.   

 

“I’ll walk you up.” _(I want to get you inside and lay my hands on your body)._

 

“You don’t have to, Grissom, I’m fine.”

 

“A gentleman always walks a lady to her door.” _(God knows I don’t feel like a gentleman right now.)_

 

“If you insist.”

 

“I insist.” _(On tasting your skin, feeling you breathe, hearing you moan out my name as you come)_. 

 

_(How the hell is she getting to me like this?)_

 

She had a hard time with the lock on her door, her keys tumbling out of her hands and onto the mat. 

 

“I guess I’m a little more shook up than I thought.”

 

Or else she could sense the change that’s come over him, the yearning for her, the desire to have her under his skin, inside his heart, pressed into every fiber of his being. He closed a gentle hand over hers and helped her with the lock. 

 

In four short steps they were inside her apartment. Sara reached for the light switch and he stopped her with his hand. 

 

“Wait, Sara.” He drew her closer, feeling the heat radiating from her. “Leave it off.”

 

“Why?” She sounded slightly breathless, both uncertain and turned on and unsure which was appropriate. 

 

 

“Please.”

 

“Gris–“

 

And then his mouth was on hers, swallowing his name, pouring every ounce of desperation and desire into the joining of their lips. Sara moaned softly, and her hand rose to grip his bicep, holding herself steady as he rocked her with a kiss that neither of them had been expecting. 

 

“Gris–“ she murmured unsteadily when she had enough breath to speak.

 

“Gil.”

 

“Gil, oh god…” And then her mouth was on his again and her hands were moving to his back and then down to grab his ass and pulling him closer. His hands slid to grip her in the same places, pulled her hips against his pelvis with a groan of desire. 

 

“Sara.” Her name came out a moan. “Sara, honey, I want you so much.” He slid a hand up into her hair, cradled the back of her head as he continued to kiss her. “Don’t say no.”

 

“Are you kidding?” she managed when she could talk again, resting her forehead against his. She slid her own long fingers into the fine curls of his salt-and-pepper hair. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

 

“Don’t I?” He placed a line of fast kisses down her jaw until he reached the sensitive spot on her neck just below her earlobe. He slid his mouth along the sweet line of her neck, bit at her shoulder until her hips rolled against his and a groan escaped her.  

 

“Bedroom,” he whispered and lifted his head so that he could see her face as his eyes adjusted to the half darkness. “Or couch. Whichever is closer.” 

 

“Couch.” Taking his hands in hers, she walked backward into the living room, her eyes still on his. He gave her a gentle smile, loosened one hand from hers so that he could touch her face, sensing that she needed reassurance.

 

 

He stilled their motion as they reached the couch, turned his caress of her cheek into a long, languid stroke down her body that had her closing her eyes and nearly purring with contentment. At her waist he slid her shirt up inch by slow inch, revealing the pale, perfect expanse of her torso. He played his fingers over the tight plane of her belly, tracing the appendectomy scar on her left side, using his thumb to slide over the sweet curve between her rib cage and her hips. 

 

She drew in her breath sharply when he touched her, held the in-take of air as if she were trying to freeze the moment, to read and analyze it. 

 

“Breathe, sweetheart.” He slid the palm of his hand up and down over her stomach in slow circles. “I want you with me, not passed out on the floor.”

 

She laughed a little, breathless, caught somewhere between amusement and arousal. “I didn’t imagine it like this, that’s all.”

 

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” he murmured, dropping to his knees to explore her hips while he unbuttoned her jeans. 

 

“It’s better than I ever imagined. I didn’t know you’d be so--” She broke off when his hands grasped her hips. 

 

“So ...?”

 

“Attentive.” 

 

“Mmm, you have my full and undivided attention.” He skimmed her jeans down her legs and tossed them aside, then pushed her down on the couch. She leaned forward to cup his head in her hands and pulled him toward her for a searing kiss. 

 

“This shirt needs to come off,” she whispered against his lips. She slid buttons free and pushed the shirt back off his shoulders until it puddled to the ground. Her long fingers played over his chest and he shuddered. 

 

“If that’s the case,” he replied, “This needs to come off, too.” And he unclasped her bra and swept it off her shoulders. 

 

They took turns removing the other’s clothing in between kisses and caresses, until both of them were naked, silvered by the moonlight shining palely between the curtains. Grissom stayed on his knees in front of Sara, exploring her hips and inner thighs with clever, certain fingers, working her up to a slow insistent burn. 

 

 

He hadn’t explicitly planned anything about the evening. Certainly he hadn’t planned on finger-fucking Sara on her couch, watching fascinated as her back arched and her hips rolled when he placed just the right amount of pressure _there_. He hadn’t planned on his own sudden need to be moving inside of her as he watched her ride out the tremors from the climax he’d so unexpectedly given her. When he’d thought about this night, this moment, he’d pictured them in her bed, sheets rustling, windows slightly open, her hair falling over him in a tangled waterfall, his hands on her back. He hadn’t imagined this– how erotic he would find Sara lying on the couch, legs parted, hair tousled, breathing hard as she came down from that sharp peak. 

 

“Gil.” 

 

“Yes, dear?” He kissed her forehead where a sheen of sweat had gathered and smoothed her hair. “God, you are beautiful. I wish you could see yourself like this. You are breath-taking.”

 

She reached up and placed a warm hand on his cheek. He leaned into her touch, then turned his head just enough to kiss her palm. “I want to see the rest of you.” He took her wrist and gently moved her hand down his neck and chest to his torso in a soft slide of movement. “I want your hands on me. I want you to see the rest of me.”

 

Sara nodded unsteadily, her breath still coming short. She slid her arms around his neck and he lifted her, wishing he were a few years younger, wanting to take her standing up, pressed against the wall, her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. He quickly determined that her large, tall bed would do just as well if standing up came in to play– now he just wanted to be inside Sara, feeling her tighten around him, her nails in his back, her groan of pleasure when he spilled inside of her. 

 

He tumbled them both onto the bed, kissing her sweet pliant mouth. She was starting to come back from that first intense climax and was kissing him more firmly, exploring him with long, warm fingers, grinding against him in a frenzy that spoke of need long unfulfilled. 

 

“Gil,” she moaned, voice ragged. “I want you in me–“

 

“I know.” He slid his hand over her belly, then down in slow circles, moving closer to her center with each caress. “I want you, too.” His fingers dipped into her warmth, patiently exploring, seeking the places that would send her pulse racing. 

 

His first foray deeper inside had her moaning softly and pushing down against his fingers. “Relax, sweetheart.” He curled his fingers and felt her hips move again. 

 

“Are you– trying– to–drive me crazy?” she gasped out after long minutes of his fingers playing out the same slow chords inside of her. She tried to spread her legs wider and moaned in frustration when he stopped her. “Oh God, Gil– sweetheart, please–“

 

 

“Shhh. A little tantra never drove anyone crazy.” He kissed the pulse point at her throat. “Breathe slowly when you start feeling out of control.”

 

“Start? God, I’m there already. Please, baby–“

 

“Not yet,” he soothed, maintaining those same slow movements that were driving her so solidly toward distraction. “Just wait. Just breathe.” 

 

When he’d worked her up as high as he felt he could take her, when she was practically panting under his hands with repressed need, only then did he slide inside of her.

 

She was hot and deliciously wet, her body almost vibrating with frenzy. He rocked his hips, starting a slow tremor that worked its way up the quicker he moved. Sara cried out, arching her back, feverishly pushing against him for the release she needed so badly. He rocked steadily, harder and harder until he was panting too, his own body slick with sweat. 

 

“Oh God– I can’t--” Sara’s voice was choked. “Gil, HARDER!” A shudder ran through her and Sara was lost, her voice breaking mid-word, replaced by a harsh groan. His own release was on him then and he thrust into her, hips pistoning, coming in a warm flood deep inside of her. He was amazed to feel that she had come as well, a softer gush that coated his fingers as he stroked her, coaxing the last tremors from her with gentle fingertips.  

 

“Oh God,” Sara moaned, panting, dropping limply onto the rumpled sheets. “Jesus ...”

 

“Just Gil, thanks,” he murmured into her neck and received a weak swat on his ass for the lame joke. He chuckled softly and rolled onto his back, pulling her with him, tracing the contours of her body with fascinated fingers. He kissed her salty skin. “Sara, dear.”

 

Her reply was a soft and quite sleepy “mmm.” Lying on his chest, her hair tousled, body limp and warm, she looked like a dryad, all supple limbs and long hair. 

 

“I love the way you get to me.”

 

**End.**

 


End file.
